


Welcome Home

by ghostwise



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwise/pseuds/ghostwise
Summary: Zevran and the Warden arrive in Antiva for the first time.





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece, written on a whim, but people seemed to like it on the blog. Thanks for your support <3

“I like it,” Hamal says. “It suits you.”

Zevran laughs, and the sound is cemented along with the Warden’s first impressions of Antiva: the warm, humid air, the sound of the waves, the colorful tents lining the shore as they approach port, and his lover’s laughter, perfect and clear. Ringing like bells. And Hamal kisses him because how could he not, in a moment like this?

For that moment, the Blight is a distant and terrible memory.

They find a seaside inn to stay at, and while away the days exploring the town. Their reason for coming here lingers between them, unspoken.

Zevran reveals a side of him that Hamal never knew; or perhaps it’s that those qualities he possesses have become more focused, revealed under a bright magnifying glass. In his home country, Zevran wanders the streets with ease. He chats happily in Antivan with the shopkeepers and merchants. He translates for Hamal, obviously enjoying his newfound role of tour-guide. Hamal laughs to see it, feels his heart swell.

There are fruits here that could never grow in Ferelden, sold in little street carts, arranged with such artful skill that it almost seems a shame to eat them. There are shops selling hand-made sandals and ornately patterned belts, and the smell of the leather damn near makes Zevran cry with joy.

Hamal could watch him forever. With this thought comes a startling realization: that Antiva, with Zevran, feels more like home than Clan Sabrae, without Zevran, ever could.

He promptly buys him the sword and leather scabbard he’d been eyeing. Being the Hero of Ferelden has some advantages, he’ll admit.

Hamal rubs sunblock ointments into his skin and scalp with diligence, but by the end of the week winds up pink and sore, peeling. He smiles anyway because Zevran is immediately upon him with soothing balms of aloe and shea.

And at night they come back to the inn, fall into one another. Effortless and joyful, the way they fit together, almost like it’s been long-rehearsed. The Warden whispers something he overheard a giggling couple say on the street. Whatever it is, it causes Zevran to fall back, laughing, unable to hide the blush rising to his cheeks. Though he also informs him that his accent is atrocious.

The anniversary of Rinnala’s death passes like a ghost over this blissful time.

They stay in their room that day. Hamal lets Zevran talk when he needs to, and sits with him in silence when he doesn’t.

Neither of them sleep that night. Zevran lays his head on his lap, thinking.

Their reason for coming here lingers between them, unspoken, but strongly felt.

In the morning, they pack their things and leave.

They have a lot of work to do.


End file.
